but palm trees dominated the décor on the wallpaper and the appliqué on the guest towels. She’d retained the old claw-footed tub and pedestal sink, both refurbished, but added a showerhead and a curtain patterned in fronds that could be tucked in when she wanted to wash her hair. Otherwise, she liked to luxuriate in the deep, refinished bath, preferably with bubbles or scented bath salts in the water. The commode, however, was new. No way to get years of stains out of the old toilet. One of the workmen hauled that away to make a planter at his house.
“Nice,” Merlin said, glancing from the oval framed mirror over the sink to the deep tub and back as if he fantasized about Jane covered in a froth of bubbles while he shaved his heavy, black beard.
Or maybe, she invented the fantasy. He’d be wearing only a towel, low slung on his hips. The mirror revealed his muscled chest covered in a mat of black hair, his swarthy face lathered in pure white shaving cream. He caught her watching and unleashed a lascivious smile that promised he’d soon be in that tub with her.
“Pie! Let’s get out of here and have pie.” With her heart beating way too fast, Jane led her guests to the kitchen.
Merlin got his grandmother settled while Jane poured the lemonade and cut thick slices of her pecan masterpiece. She awaited Olive’s verdict. The old lady considered the dessert as if she were judging in a 4H contest. She stuck a fork in one petal of the crust and watched it flake off and drift to the plate.
Eyeing the filling, Olive said, “You used the Betty Crocker recipe with the three eggs and the light corn syrup, no?”
“Why, yes.”
“I always used Steen’s molasses. It makes a rich, dark pie, but your crust is good. You used pecans from my old tree. Most people won’t bother to shell those little nuts, too small. They been spoiled by those huge, tasteless paper shell pecans. These are sweet, sweet.” Finally, the judging done, Olive took a bite, nodded, and declared, “Tasty.”
“Real sugar in the lemonade, too. I was afraid you’d use that artificial stuff.” Merlin drained his glass and dug into his pie. Between large bites, he said, “Say, I’d like to go upstairs to my old bedroom in the attic and see what you did with it.”
“The garçonniere ,” his grandmother corrected as she accepted a mug of coffee.
“You can slap a fancy French name on it, but us boys still slept in an attic with two mattresses on the floor and one rattling old air conditioner to make it bearable in summer.”
Miss Olive sniffed. “In my day, no one had air conditioning, and we didn’t complain. Go on if you want. You know I can’t do those stairs no more.” She accepted another tee-tiny piece of pie before they left the kitchen.
Jane and Merlin went out on the front porch and climbed the outside stairs to the traditional garçonniere . She explained as they went that some of the old boards had been replaced, but the contractor had carefully matched them with aged cypress to replicate the weathered gray color. As they entered the area, Merlin ducked his head to keep from bashing himself on the slanting roof beams. He glanced around with amazement.
“I’ve grown some since I last slept here. The trick is to remember to stay in the center of the room. If the place had looked like this in my time, Doyle and me would have thought we were staying at the Hilton. Gaw, you put in a bathroom.”
“Just a small one with a shower, sink, and commode. I thought my brother might like to stay up here if he visits with my parents. What did you and Doyle do for—facilities?”
“Oh, Granny never locked the front door so we could go downstairs if we really needed to take a crap. She gave us one of those chamber pots to use, too, but mostly we just peed off the side of the stairs. Killed her hydrangeas. Nice bed.”
Merlin sat on the single sleigh bed with a pull-out trundle in the bottom. He still had to lean forward a little to
“Nice,” Merlin said, glancing from the oval framed mirror over the sink to the deep tub and back as if he fantasized about Jane covered in a froth of bubbles while he shaved his heavy, black beard.
Or maybe, she invented the fantasy. He’d be wearing only a towel, low slung on his hips. The mirror revealed his muscled chest covered in a mat of black hair, his swarthy face lathered in pure white shaving cream. He caught her watching and unleashed a lascivious smile that promised he’d soon be in that tub with her.
“Pie! Let’s get out of here and have pie.” With her heart beating way too fast, Jane led her guests to the kitchen.
Merlin got his grandmother settled while Jane poured the lemonade and cut thick slices of her pecan masterpiece. She awaited Olive’s verdict. The old lady considered the dessert as if she were judging in a 4H contest. She stuck a fork in one petal of the crust and watched it flake off and drift to the plate.
Eyeing the filling, Olive said, “You used the Betty Crocker recipe with the three eggs and the light corn syrup, no?”
“Why, yes.”
“I always used Steen’s molasses. It makes a rich, dark pie, but your crust is good. You used pecans from my old tree. Most people won’t bother to shell those little nuts, too small. They been spoiled by those huge, tasteless paper shell pecans. These are sweet, sweet.” Finally, the judging done, Olive took a bite, nodded, and declared, “Tasty.”
“Real sugar in the lemonade, too. I was afraid you’d use that artificial stuff.” Merlin drained his glass and dug into his pie. Between large bites, he said, “Say, I’d like to go upstairs to my old bedroom in the attic and see what you did with it.”
“The garçonniere ,” his grandmother corrected as she accepted a mug of coffee.
“You can slap a fancy French name on it, but us boys still slept in an attic with two mattresses on the floor and one rattling old air conditioner to make it bearable in summer.”
Miss Olive sniffed. “In my day, no one had air conditioning, and we didn’t complain. Go on if you want. You know I can’t do those stairs no more.” She accepted another tee-tiny piece of pie before they left the kitchen.
Jane and Merlin went out on the front porch and climbed the outside stairs to the traditional garçonniere . She explained as they went that some of the old boards had been replaced, but the contractor had carefully matched them with aged cypress to replicate the weathered gray color. As they entered the area, Merlin ducked his head to keep from bashing himself on the slanting roof beams. He glanced around with amazement.
“I’ve grown some since I last slept here. The trick is to remember to stay in the center of the room. If the place had looked like this in my time, Doyle and me would have thought we were staying at the Hilton. Gaw, you put in a bathroom.”
“Just a small one with a shower, sink, and commode. I thought my brother might like to stay up here if he visits with my parents. What did you and Doyle do for—facilities?”
“Oh, Granny never locked the front door so we could go downstairs if we really needed to take a crap. She gave us one of those chamber pots to use, too, but mostly we just peed off the side of the stairs. Killed her hydrangeas. Nice bed.”
Merlin sat on the single sleigh bed with a pull-out trundle in the bottom. He still had to lean forward a little to
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